We all know the “When I retire I’ll become a writer,” sort. The “It can’t be that hard” type. But then there’s the realist. They want to get into writing, but it’s harrowing, like sailing upon the black seas of some Lovecraft poem. I can’t remember the name, I wouldn’t spell it right if I had, and none of us would have been able to pronounce it anyway, so I’m leaving it ambiguous.
They look at writing and say, “I should wade in. Let’s start with children’s books!” Oh, abscond from your foolish notions, mortal!
I see the quote a lot, some of them from pretty famous authors. They can weave a tale in a fantasy world, create a beautiful and stunning landscape, but they wanted to start out “easy,” with children’s books.
I’ve thought about them. Part of me thought, “It wouldn’t be hard.” Most of me thought, “Then my nephew could read my books!” He was around one and a half at the time, and otherwise he likely won’t be reading them until he’s sixteen.
The issue is I can’t write appropriately for kids. I can’t do the word choice, which is so scientific and meticulously chosen for the different age ranges in order to both be comprehensible, yet challenge their neophyte vocabulary. There are themes, ideas, plans, and a number of other concepts incorporated into children books which I just could not fathom. So I forfeit, and understood my nephew would be have to be in high school before reading the works of dear Uncle Paul.
Until then, when given the chance, I regale him with stories of him as a Pokemon trainer with his treecko and other misadventures with his dinosaur, Rupert. He wanted to name treecko Rupert, but I informed him giving all his friends the same name was simply improper.
To those of you who write children books, I admire your abilities, your comprehension, and your empathy. Without those, one could not connect to the little ones.
...like butta' on your toast!
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